


catty-corner across the way

by EchoDoctor



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Also literal fluff, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, Fluff without Plot, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-13 21:14:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10521993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EchoDoctor/pseuds/EchoDoctor
Summary: Alternate Universe- in which life is a little gentler, Chara is a little calmer, and Sans is a housecat.(Yes, really.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> For Lint, who keeps encouraging my headcanons. (Even the ones that probably shouldn't be.)

Chara Dreemurr was pretty sure they were about to die.

They’d made their peace with it, honestly- after all, who’d expected them to even make it this far? Not them, that was for sure. Self-knowledge was a vital and necessary virtue, which they frankly hadn’t wanted any of but had wound up with a decent amount of anyway, and after spending many ages (about six and a half hours over the course of last night) in deep meditation on the state of their soul (staring sleeplessly at their bedroom ceiling because _why did they keep forgetting dark chocolate had caffeine in it, this keeps happening_ ) they could state with utmost confidence that they were, approximately, five bad habits with a serious mistake on top, put in a green sweater and staked up in the yard like a scarecrow of terrible decisions.

Left there alone out in the elements, so that their hideous visage could at least serve some small purpose in warding off nosy neighbors and frightening small children… their internal monologue had gotten away from them at some point there, but _the point was_ that the smart money clearly hadn’t been on them somehow lasting all the way to the ripe old age of ‘twenty-something, probably, none of your damn business’.

They blamed Frisk.

Sure, they couldn’t _prove_ anything, but somehow interfering with the natural order of things to keep God’s Red-Eyed Mistake alive long enough to crash-land into their life and become winner of the World’s Worst Roommate Championship, year 201X, was _totally_ the kind of thing Frisk would do.

That damn loving, compassionate jerkwad.

But their years of effort would soon all be for nothing, they were sure, likely to the great relief of basically everybody _but_ Frisk and maybe some local chocolatiers, especially their downstairs neighbor who still crossed himself every time he passed them in the hallway. In their defense, though, he’d provoked them- who went around trying to physically grab peoples’ hands and stuff Bible camp advertisement pamphlets in them at _ten at night_ , seriously? If the man hadn’t wanted to get kicked somewhere uncomfortable, he should have had the common decency to knock on their door at way too early in the morning and then give up and shove his pamphlets in through the mail slot, like those nice Mormon girls from down the street.

And soon he would once again champion the cause of Little Miracles Summertime Christ Study (ages 6 through 12) without fear, because _the end was coming_. They could feel it in every shake and shiver of their trembling hands, in the sweat they could not keep from rolling in droplets down their ribs, in the way all other thoughts had ceased to function in their relentless focus on this single moment of physical suffering.

No, they would not be long for this wretched place, and they would bear their oncoming doom with the noble dignity their life had lacked, meeting it with serenity and- finally, just as they had begun to compose their own eulogy, the elevator chimed.

The doors swung open, and they staggered quickly down the hallway to drop their ludicrously heavy grocery bags in front of the door to apartment 709 with an expression of desperate relief. What the hell had they been thinking, trying to haul all this crap home by themselves? Past them had, admittedly, had just barely enough sense not to try carrying them up seven flights of stairs, but had also naively assumed that taking the elevator would be a brief and tolerable journey, as opposed to a trial of agony that had clearly lasted long enough for continental drift to drag this entire shitshow of a city several yards to the left, no matter how much their watch insisted it had only been six minutes.

Past them was an idiot who had nearly gotten present them’s fingers snapped in two under the weight of twelve cans of peaches.

They didn’t even like peaches that much- quite possibly no one liked peaches _that_ much- but they’d been on sale, and canned goods would keep long enough that they’d still be edible five months later when they were inevitably completely exhausted and rummaging through the back of the pantry to see if there was literally anything that wouldn’t mean they’d have to go out to get food. Frisk kept insisting on getting fresh vegetables, because they were learning to cook, and routinely pointed out that Chara was getting really good at it, honest, that soup had been so delicious.

Frisk was an incorrigible optimist who would, once the organic produce rotted and the shine wore off their good intentions, be just as happy as they were to stuff a frozen burrito in the microwave and eat it on the couch in total silence, except that they’d feel vaguely guilty about it because they still had some vestigial sense of shame.

Hopefully preserved fruit would constitute an acceptable compromise.

Frisk was also, they noticed upon finally shoving the heavy old door open with their shoulder and wrangling the grocery bags into the kitchen, not here. The mystery of the missing roommate persisted up until they finished shelving the canned goods and went to put away the perishables, when they found a sticky note on the fridge.

“Dog needed a walk. You know what a _rover_ he is, just can’t stay in one _spot_ all day. ;D Be back in time to make dinner with you, love, Frisk. (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧ “

Well, that certainly answered that question. Even if they’d been inclined to doubt the note’s provenance, only one person could add emojis to a handwritten note with that level of sincerity. Groceries settled, they trudged into the living room and flopped down on the hideous but comfortable plaid couch. The two of them had rescued it from a dumpster downtown and brought it home after disinfecting it with unyielding thoroughness and a truly heroic amount of bleach, yet another testament to Frisk’s lifelong habit of taking home intensely dubious strays.

Chara knew themselves to be exhibit A for this particular vice, although they would have preferred to die rather than ever admit it, which was why they continued to put up with the presence of exhibits B through W, and the looming knowledge that they’d surely be coming home with an apologetic expression and exhibit X any day now. Lost in this contemplation of their companion, they failed to realize that the soft object they had absently rested their elbow on was not a pillow, but the extremely fluffy body of what they would have lovingly termed ‘exhibit F-U’.

Their reverie was thus rudely interrupted by a noise like a mortally offended whoopee cushion. “You know,” they complained, hastily scrambling off the longsuffering cat. “I hear you’re supposed to meow. Possibly even purr, if you’re feeling daring. Either way, there should certainly be fewer fart sounds.”

His only response to their suggestion was to close his pale blue eyes in a slow and sleepy blink, then put his head back on his paws and resume his nap. Snorting with what they would insist was disdain, not fondness, Chara reached out to scratch him behind the ears, only to snatch their hand back and fold it demurely in their lap when the apartment door burst open with a chorus of laughter and excited barking.

“Honey, I’m home~!”

They looked up, carefully avoiding any visible traces of a facial expression, entirely unsurprised to see Frisk with their arms flung wide, standing in a pose that was probably meant to look very dramatically romantic, but was mostly just putting them so off-balance they had to discreetly grab on to a nearby light fixture to keep from toppling face-first onto the carpet. Judging by their wide grin and enthusiastic eyebrow-waggling, this was not deterring them.

“I see your absurd hound hasn’t managed to haul you off into oncoming traffic by the end of his leash yet. Congratulations.”

“Nope, he’s gotten way better about remembering not to bolt off after every squirrel,” Frisk said proudly, reaching down to give the black and white dog a pat on the head. He wagged his tail widely enough that Chara was mildly surprised not to see anything get knocked over, then trotted into the living room to lie down on the carpet.

Unmoved by this display of human and canine affection, they added “And your tendency for ridiculous pet names, regrettably, remains intact.”

“How dare you,” Frisk gasped in mock offense, perching on the arm of the couch. “I can come up with _way_ more ridiculous nicknames than that, it barely even counts.”

“Dear God.”

“Dearest, darlingest Chara, sweet Chara pie, the one I Chara-ish, honey nut Chara-Os…”

“Stop. Enough. Mercy,” The object of their flattery pleaded in a perfect deadpan.

“So, anything fun happen while I was out?”

“Mm, not much. Bought groceries, faced the torments of creation, attempted to admonish your _other_ absurd pet… Speaking of ridiculous names, whatever _did_ possess you to name that cat ‘Comic Sans’?”

“What, you don’t think it fits him?”

They turned in unison to look at Sans, who made a snorting noise and continued sleeping. It had to be said, the name _did_ fit in a way they’d never quite been able to put their finger on, just as the dog happily sprawled on the floor working intently on a chew was somehow undeniably, as Frisk had cheerfully proclaimed him to a slightly embarrassing amount of total strangers, the Great _Pup_ -pyrus.

Chara could only assume their partner’s particular form of insanity was contagious.

“I think,” Chara replied, “That we only continue to call this beast a housecat because there is no readily available word for ‘all-devouring fuzz orb’. I mean, look at him, he’s practically spherical.”

“Awww, who’s a good all-devouring fuzz orb?” Frisk cooed, petting the cat gently. He made a sleepy little sighing noise and pushed his head against their hand, resulting in a joyful babble of cuteness-induced nonsense.

“I’m serious,” they insisted. “That cat is a bottomless pit of hunger. He’s _plotting things._ One day he’ll eventually get tired of eating us out of house and home and just _eat us_ , period. It’s probably coming soon, he’s already the size of your head. Locked doors won’t save you, either- I’ve seen how many leaves that catnip plant I’m growing out on the balcony keeps losing. He’s clearly figured them out somehow.”

“He would _never_ ,” Frisk passionately defended their cat’s honor, as only one who still remembered him as the tiny kitten they’d found shivering in the pouring rain while hovering protectively over an even tinier puppy could. Sometimes, Chara suspected that they were trying to make up for the first few months of their pets’ lives a dozen times over, and was therefore willfully blind to their cat’s current state- a smug, evil-minded bastard who hadn’t started stealing the rest of the building’s food only because he was much too lazy to walk that far.

(On the days that were cold inside and out, when they always seemed to know when to slip them a chocolate bar and offer a warm blanket, Chara suspected they were trying to do the same for them. They’d decided not to mention it, so as to preserve at least some small scrap of their dignity. That debt had been long-since paid, in any case.)

“Believe what you like,” they sniffed disdainfully. “But when small children start going missing, I suggest you check for unusually large bones in the litter box.”

Frisk rolled their eyes, but couldn’t manage to completely stop themselves from grinning. “Well, I’m going to start washing up for dinner. I was thinking maybe pasta tonight? Whenever you’re done maligning the name of an innocent housecat, feel free to join me.”

“Pasta sounds lovely, I’ve got some basil growing that hasn’t been mauled half to death, since even this furball isn’t dense enough to mistake it for the catnip. Just remember,” they declared with mock solemnity, staring Sans straight in the eyes. “When the time comes, you eat Frisk first, okay? I’m the one who grows the catnip for you, so you owe me enough time to get a running start.”

“Hey!”

Chara smirked, “What, you’re afraid of an innocent housecat? I thought he’d _never_.”

Watching Frisk struggle not to burst out laughing, they remembered the cold alleyway they’d found their pets in… and an older, colder alleyway they hadn’t gone back to in years, at least not outside their least pleasant dreams. Both animals watched them with trusting eyes, gentle and unafraid, and they let themselves smile softly for a moment, holding on to the memory of a warm couch and soft fur, in case they needed it later.

They had to admit, there were benefits to no longer being a stray, all matters of stubborn pride aside. Settling their face back into its usual inscrutable expression, they got up to help make dinner.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So it turns out that when I write fluff, I write _literal_ fluff. As in, Norwegian Forest Cat level fluff. :D


End file.
